Battles ,Annexations and the Wars.

I don't like to boast, display, or serve dutch courage.If a battle awaits I 'll keep my arsenal close.

 Brick by brick we fall a wall, drop by drop we dry a well, pillar by pillar empires fell. The rats brought down Rome  before the cats were unleashed. I have been warned, what now, what difference it makes? The confrontations have kept me awake through endless nights. I have slain my self, I have killed my self and been reborn. What effect you cause with the drums and horns?

We could blow the trumpets hollow of the air that is in our throats but what is the point? Better save up on that breath. You need it to fight, to battle, to win.

The enemies outside and the war is within. We part to annex the next territory. Before we control our wits , our form and our whims.
How ignoble could the enemy be.Sinister in it's suicidal nature. Yet survival is the one stark key that keeps him from winning and you from failure. Who will rest your fidget, your paranoid ways?

We thrive on most poisoned despair but hope is what sees me through. I eliminate chinks of doubt and lies that may cloud my mind as I put myself through the test of endurance, the decree of pain. It is the light of life that I search for and not its friend of fate.

Plot whatever there may be on how you would or you might act. For I know not less or more than one in present , the fallacy of a forming fact.
You defeat the purpose of your life in plotting another existence and end . I live here rejoicing little treasures and building on my long stood strengths.

I do not need a battle to annex what I know I do control. My life I chose to live as a free man. Not a prisoner fearing the end of parole.

Lamenting(part III)

Of all the things I undo,
and undo as knotted strings,
I have learnt to fret not
but rue the misgivings,
of a woman so foolish in love,
or a man so blind in logic
 so staunch in pride
that vulnerability sheers to tragic
and to have them both in one,
fragile glass like frame,
both daunting at the surface,
both extremes in the same.

Of all the things I rue,
I rue one not my own,
such object of a life,
misplaced in misfortune,
I  could feel the two spirits in me,
I wonder if he had one,
What flames does it take
 for the soul to twist and turn,
be such as a coil of a weak alloy
be such as the vapours of
a substance smoked to dry.

Of all the things I give up,
I give into this one rue,(I hoped forgetting was brisk)
oblivion never found my doorstep,
it was in haste to find you. (easier to find stone obelisks)
Of all the things I love,
I wonder what is my passion,
An unnatural borne progression,
Epicene in it's nature,
for you were dead I now know,
 the two spirits in hate I harbour.

Apropos!

Lets not say what I inferred of it all or perhaps you could stick into the implicit the stake and tell me was their some water in all of it, because when I did run through the scalpel of intricate skill through the clutter that required hacksaws to get through, I found a fluid more warm, sanguine. It was all having a life of it's own running, stinging in wild passions, rising in rushes, falling in tides. All that ran through with membranes enclosing the full bodied person that existed in your speech. I feel so much, is that a disorder? that I see through opaque and hence the life in the lifeless seeming drenches and the thumps that are a dead hum come alive in my ears as percussions of a wild beating heart.Too sensitive, too lame?
I never was, and now it's proven or perhaps it is,vinndicated I am, I feel.
As I speak, you utter....Apropos!

The Condensation on the Glass Walls.

In the veil of the pouring waters, everything drenched, and the mossy ground thawed from the showers swooped into a muddy whirlpool as the water gushed through a hole, there was no ground below my  feet, it was melting away into an abyss and I walked on it , steps firmly rooted in a nebula . I stepped into a puddle, the water cold and filthy washed at my feet with a splash that reverberated my thoughts. My eyes had been stalking a figure in that downpour, a hazy figure, appeared in white near the blue glass walls, it traced my glance,met me in the eyes and then like a the condensed haze on the window pane it was all removed by a sudden sweep. I conjured the haze.. The lucidity of a glass wall never alarms, is like a monotonous pain after you have pressed your self against it in an attempt to walk through, illusions and haze arise and then fall leaving a twitch of agony. Hope leads to hallucinations and despair is a counter drug. Which one of them is the poison?   

We were Water.

I know of desire,
have tasted it's ashes,
less warmth from a fire,
with a splinter that crashes,
flies in soot after glow,
crackling on wood and flesh hollow.


If we were not wooden
(in expression, but profound)
 in words spoken that night
of the sea, the wind, the sand and the tide.
Closer than they were there,
the prospect of passions to share.

We could have been water,
waves,from an ocean rising twice
lashing and mingling in stark high tides
miscible, liquid, in a flow.
tuned in spirits , fervent or slow.


not sand but water in entwine,
mingling of breath, blood, flesh
 by the tranquil blue, never enmeshed..


 sands are parched, dry and pale,
by summer tempest and winter's gale
now at the end meet the shore
Could the wind not float evermore?

water and salt
by them soaked in love
before the storm will fall.

We could have been water
in each others arms,
miscible, liquid,less viscous layers
each flowing over the other in there,
river or the sea, each one in form
and how does it matter
where the other is from?


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